


day 6: laughter

by apocryphic



Series: mcgenji week 2016 [6]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, M/M, McGenji Week, Mild Gore, Post-Recall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphic/pseuds/apocryphic
Summary: This is really where Genji has chosen to lay his affections. He thinks vaguely on the fact that he's holding hands with a man covered in blood, nearing the point of writing a eulogy for a cowboy hat. How absurd.





	

"You have blood on your face." 

"You got wires stickin' out of you." 

Genji reaches. His right arm is shattered at the shoulder, laying worthless against the floor. His left hand, at least, can be made useful, and he uses his fingers to smear red away from McCree's nose before it reaches his mouth for the third time. His beard has dried bits of blood already caked in half of it. He looks terrible, Genji thinks. 

"Thanks," McCree says, still nasal, and his head thuds back against the floor of the hovercraft. 

"Please stop moving," Angela pleads to them both, her whole posture stiff, tense, unhappy. Genji's hand drops to McCree's shoulder and stays there. 

Missions going south are nothing new, but it's one of the first times he and McCree have been caught in the tail end of an explosion together. Genji's right half doesn't look terribly good, but he's already set out to consciously ignore the synthetic nerves that flicker and radiate reminders of pain through his torn body. McCree has it subjectively worse; Angela's removed his prosthetic for him so that she can work on the cut slicing his arm clean and deep.  

Biotics saturate the air; Genji breathes them in. The scent is not his favorite, but it's better than burned carbon fiber and the tang of blood. 

The aircraft jostles slightly. Genji may be unable to feel a certain kind of nausea, but dizziness is not alien to this body of his. Even laying on the metal floor, cool as can be against his unarmored form, Genji's head spins enough to have him scowling.  

"Your visor's cracked," McCree points out. "The light. Nasty."  

Genji's eyes are shut already, but he cracks one open to peer over at McCree, tilting his head to properly look at him. "There is blood in your hair."  

"How many showers' worth?" 

"At least three." 

McCree swears. "What if I'm real thorough about it?"  

"Three," Genji says promptly, and McCree swears again. 

"Please." Angela sounds very tired, and very firm.  

McCree grins and Genji sees the red between his teeth. Four showers, Genji decides, and the strongest toothpaste on base. He doesn't look at Angela before reaching again, slowly and slower still, winding his fingers between McCree's. McCree snorts, wheezes at the pain it no doubt shoots through his system, and Genji's lips quirk at the corners, hidden beneath his faceplate. McCree grips his hand tight.  

Genji pauses. Opens both eyes, glances around. 

"Your hat," he says simply.  

"Wh —" McCree blinks and looks every which way he can before Angela gets onto him, panicked and regretful all at once. "The blast — aw, shit, it must've come clean off." 

"Better than your head," supplies Genji.  

"Barely. _Damn_. I've had that thing through hell and high water, it can't just up and disappear like that." McCree's mourning is interrupted by further jostling of the vehicle. Genji wants to throw up but can't. If he could have a migraine, he expects he would have one. There's no telling if he can or not. He doesn't want to find out now of all times, while McCree is nearly crying over a hat. 

This is really where Genji has chosen to lay his affections. He thinks vaguely on the fact that with the hand that he is _not_ missing, he is holding hands with a man covered in blood, nearing the point of writing a eulogy for a cowboy hat. How absurd. It is not where Genji had ever thought his life would end up years and years before; but then, he had also never expected to imitate a drawl and  _wear_ a cowboy hat while fu — 

"It's right here," says Angela mildly, and plucks the (rumpled, dirty) hat off of the seat behind her and onto the floor next to McCree. The hat has blood on it too. That's great, Genji thinks. It means McCree matches his hat. Both bloody, unkempt, tacky, funny, not dead, or missing. Great.  

McCree's relief is sudden and palpable, and Genji blinks as the man's next pained wheeze turns into a choked-up laugh, his hand in Genji's coming up into the air and hovering like he might want to grip his sides to keep his lungs together but he's too busy holding hands to bother. Genji clears his throat to hide his own building amusement, partially delirious and fully uncomfortable, but he can't quite muffle it once Angela's smile registers. Genji joins McCree in his delight, holding onto his hand tighter, laughing along with little pained hiccups while Angela gets to work to fix Genji up, too. 

It only makes him hurt worse in the long run, sore from the jumping, skipping breaths needed for the hysterical laughter the situation called for, but Genji's mind plays McCree's laughter all over again and he can find no true complaints. 


End file.
